


names burning into soft skin

by elainebarrish



Category: Political Animals, Political Lesbians
Genre: F/F, I couldn't resist, I've actually been working on this for ages omg, soulmarks AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2396072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Susan’s 12 when she first sees Elaine on TV, stood next to some politician or other. She can’t help but think that she’s beautiful, and that Elaine is the name written in a loopy cursive on her shoulder blade."</p>
<p>The inevitable soulmarks AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	names burning into soft skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bedfordfalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedfordfalls/gifts), [saagggeee this is completely and totally for you](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=saagggeee+this+is+completely+and+totally+for+you).



> I have no idea where the end went omg this really got away from me I'm so sorry. Thank you to sage/lisacuddys for always being so amazing about my writing and prompting me into making this happen.

When she’d met Bud his lack of a name had almost seemed like the answer to a question she’d been asking her entire life, the question that no one had been able to give her an answer to. The lack made it seem poetic, almost, when they’d tried to have the inevitable conversation. Surely if they both didn’t have soul marks then that meant they were made for each other? It was enough.

She’s twenty-two when the name appears, neat script small on her ribs, and it takes an excruciating three weeks for Bud to notice it. They’d been married for two years, they’d been happy for all of it. Bud visibly deflates when he walks in while she’s changing and sees it. “You didn’t tell me,” is all he says before walking back out their bedroom, going back to the sofa where he stays for a few nights. He cheats on her for the first time a month later, and she doesn’t blame him for it, almost feels like she deserves it. She almost resents this “Susan”, this faceless woman that had ruined her marriage, had stopped it from being enough.

Susan’s 12 when she first sees Elaine on TV, stood next to some politician or other. She can’t help but think that she’s beautiful, and that Elaine is the name written in a loopy cursive on her shoulder blade. She doubts it’s her; the age difference and the fact that she’s married make it seem impossible. She takes an interest in politics from then on anyway, she educates herself and becomes enraged at the world, at the way she’s treated at school, at work. And the name “Elaine” burns into her skin. She still doesn’t think it’s her, or that’s what she tells herself anyway.

It starts to feel as though her treatment at the office is somehow Elaine’s fault, as though through not divorcing her husband she’s to blame for the continued oppression of women in American workplaces all around the world. She channels her resentment into her articles, the words flooding onto the page like poison, like blood. She writes some of the meanest things she’ll ever get published about the women whose name burns on the soft skin of her shoulder.

Fate must be laughing at her, she mused when she realised the woman who had been writing those articles was called Susan. She didn’t read them, but enough people had quoted them at her. She knew better than to get excited at any mention of a Susan after all of these years, knew better than to even vaguely entertain the idea that this was The Susan, the faceless woman that had ruined her marriage, that absorbed her thoughts.

She hadn’t wanted to meet her, she hadn’t wanted to find out if she was The Susan, if she had the thing that people had only ever spoken of when there’d been too much alcohol and they’d been so obviously happy they’d responded to her soft questions of “what is it like?” But good PR was good PR, and converting what had been one of her loudest opponents last time could only help her intention to run for president. Meeting her was like being winded with a realisation. Bud had joked about this, once upon a time, when they had been married but still trying, one of the times that he promised to stop cheating and to truly give it another go, to not let some name on her ribs decide their future. The woman that stood before her could not be her, could not be the woman from her dreams and her wishes and her occasional nightmares, could not be the woman that was supposed to end all of her searching, but what was that pull, why did she gravitate towards her? It felt huge, this moment, as they looked at each other across her office, until someone closed a door loudly and they were startled out of their reverie, closing the gap to shake hands, feeling the spark shimmer along their skin as they touched, ignoring it.

Not reaching out to her had been unbearable, but somehow this was unbearable as well, the smiling at each other, carefully avoiding casual touches, trying to act like there was nothing wrong, no reason why she should avoid starting a friendship with the younger woman, whose handwriting she had seen, had stolen a scrap of like she was a lovesick teen, tracing the letters late at night, knowing she couldn’t deny the inevitable to herself any longer.

“Is that my mother’s name on your shoulder?!” Susan sighed, realising she’d shown him her shoulder as she reached for her shirt, sliding it on and feeling dirty, sober and tired and not ready to talk about it. “That’s her handwriting,” he continued, not seeming to notice the way her shoulders slumped and her head drooped, not seeming to care.  
“At least you confirmed that for me,” she murmured, running her hands through her hair.  
“You must have known, you must have felt it?”  
“Of course I did,” she rubbed her eyes tiredly. “It’s a shame there’s nothing to be done.”

Being friends was like a particular brand of torture, but she didn’t have the guts to mention what was scrawled across her shoulder blade, and somehow the conversation that every person had, the conversation about names, was avoided. Avoided regardless of the messages that Alex kept on leaving her, the words “tell her” following her around the office, following her as she went apartment hunting, following her to Paris and back, haunting her interactions with the older woman. As painful as this was, being shut out completely would be more painful, and that’s something she’s aware of as the words trip to the tip of her tongue, as they threaten to spill out into the air, poisoning the atmosphere with their truthfulness and their misleading potential.

It takes a presidential election win and a bucketload of champagne for them to kiss, quickly and messily in the corridor outside Elaine’s room, leaning against the door. Neither of them are as drunk as they had been, as the other thought, both of them would remember this, would treasure it, would remember how they fell into the room together, fell onto the bed. The way that they kissed for a long time, until one of them pulled away, and they curled up together, wrapped up in each other, buried underneath all of the covers on the hotel bed, fully clothed.

You’re almost surprised when you wake up to find that Susan is still there, still wrapped around you like she couldn’t imagine letting you go. You’re both still wearing what you wore to the party last night, and even with her hair messy and her makeup smeared across the pillow she looks beautiful, and you can’t help but reach out and touch her wrist softly, internally marvelling at the way her arm was wrapped around you, at how cute and peaceful and right she seemed, laying here in your bed, celebrating with you after your election win.

You’d become president and got your soul mate into bed all in one day, who knew dreams could come true? You were still smiling at her when she woke, smiling and snuffling into your shirt, arm tightening around your waist, apparently as pleased to be here as you were.  
“Morning,” you murmured, voice rough with sleep and all of the shouting that you did yesterday.  
“Morning,” she muttered sleepily back, still smiling, still looking as pleased as you did.  
“It might be a bit early for this conversation, but we never talked about our names.”  
“You must have known,” you’re surprised that Susan says this, that she didn’t consider that you never considered that as a possibility.  
“Can I see?” you ask softly.  
“Any excuse to get my top off,” she mutters cheekily, but she sits up and you undo her dress, and she pulls it off her shoulder, and you can’t help but be relieved when she reveals your name, swirling in the loopy cursive that was yours and yours alone. You can’t help but reach out to touch it, the writing indiscernible from the rest of her smooth skin, and you’re grinning as she turns around and you reciprocate, showing her your own mark, showing her her own handwriting adorning your skin. She’s grinning too as she kisses you, laughing as you both fall back onto the bed which is still warm from when you woke up wrapped together, and you’re grinning and she’s grinning and you just look at her, and you can’t believe you managed to wait this long.  
“As I’m the president you have to do as I say,” you say, laughing.  
“You haven’t been sworn in yet,” she points out, even as you roll over on top of her, kissing her neck. “But I’m sure I can make an exception, Madam President,” she manages.


End file.
